


'Who hastes to climb, seeks to revert./Of truth, Circa Regna Tonat’ Peter: 29th August 1997

by MatureMead



Series: ‘Cicumdederunt me inimici mei’ (My enemies, they surround me): After the First War [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter), One Shot, One Shot Collection, POV Peter Pettigrew, Peter Pettigrew is a Little Shit, This is not a pro-Peter Pettigrew fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatureMead/pseuds/MatureMead
Summary: ‘Circa Regna Tonat’ translates as ‘around the throne the thunder rolls’. Peter betrayed his friends to secure his own protection, but is he truly safe from his master and his former friends? Set during the events of the Deathly Hallows, before his death.
Relationships: Peter Pettigrew & Severus Snape, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter & Lily Evans Potter
Series: ‘Cicumdederunt me inimici mei’ (My enemies, they surround me): After the First War [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132904
Kudos: 1





	'Who hastes to climb, seeks to revert./Of truth, Circa Regna Tonat’ Peter: 29th August 1997

‘Wormtail?’

It was a summons, not a question. The voice that spoke his name was high, cold and clear. It rang through the hall, halting him in his tracks and making the few remaining hairs on his head stand on end.

‘My Lord?’

Peter turned around, his head bowed under his black hood, unable to meet those red, pitiless eyes.

'Fetch Severus’.

‘At once, my Lord.’

As he bowed low, he heard Voldemort turn and walk away without sparing him a backwards glance. He could feel the sweat sheen on his forehead and the thumping of his heart. It had been three years since the Dark Lord had risen again, more terrible and powerful than ever before. He, Peter, had performed the magic that had restored Voldemort to his skeletal body, had sacrificed his own flesh for his master, had murdered the grey-eyed boy in the graveyard without remorse. And yet, he could not supress a ripple of fear, a shudder of revulsion, when Voldemort’s mouth curved around his school-boy nickname.

When James had pronounced him ‘Wormtail’, Peter had flushed with pleasure. Here, at last, was proof that he belonged in this coolest of gangs. He was a true Marauder, worthy of an exclusive and secret nickname, part of the inside joke. True, his animagus form had prompted a certain amount of amusement from the others, but his rat had proved the key to many of their most successful pranks. How could they have reached Moony in the Shrieking Shack at a full moon, if not for Peter? Who else could scamper through crowded common rooms, spy on Slytherins and hide unseen in dark corners, with no need for an invisibility cloak? When James called him Wormtail, he did so with a smile playing around his cheerful mouth and his eyes crinkling behind their glasses. It was a name that promised affection, acceptance and inclusion. Now, the name was spoken with a sneer, twisted in the mouth as if the very sound of his former friendship left a bad taste. Wormtail meant mockery, derision and exclusion.

The last man to speak aloud his true name, Peter, had been Remus Lupin. Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Only Moony and Wormtail were left, the last Marauders standing. At the thought of his former friend, Peter felt the familiar flame of fear lick his insides. The last time they had met, Remus had tried to kill him. Only Harry Potter’s intervention had prevented Remus and Sirius from enacting their terrible revenge, as Peter had known they would. With Sirius dead, he was sure Remus would not rest until Peter joined him. He cringed at the memory of his friend, icy and cold as he prepared to cast the spell that would end Peter’s life. Peter took several deep breathes. Remus could not reach him here, at Malfoy Manor. He was protected. He had proven his loyalty to Voldemort, hadn’t he?

He still remembered the night the Death Eaters had found him. Convulsed with fear, he had told them everything without a fight. Why fight a war you can’t win? He had never been brave like James, or daring like Sirius, or fierce like Remus. He wanted to survive. It had been easy to return to the Order, to watch them suspect each other of spying and say nothing. His animagus was a rat; Peter was comfortable in the shadows. It was insulting, really, that none of his friends paused to consider that he might be the spy. He had watched dispassionately as Sirius began to treat Remus with hostile suspicion, whilst Remus grew darker and more distant than ever. James, of course, would not entertain the possibility that one of his cherished Marauders could betray them. Not Peter, his loyal friend, happy to bask in his reflected glory and craving his approval. Peter, content to follow him into daring escapades, and even to war. James had thought he was safe, that Peter’s loyalty would never waver. He had been wrong.

Last night, he had seen his old friends in his dream. They were grouped under the old beech tree by the lake, laughing and joking together. James running a hand through his messy hair as he teased Remus about some long-forgotten remark, turning to wink at Peter conspiratorially. Sirius, lounging casually by his side, handsome and proud, with his laugh like a bark. Remus, rolling his eyes at the pair of them but smiling tenderly as he leant back against the tree, stretching out a scarred hand to clap Sirius on the shoulder. Then, Remus turned to face him, and the wolf looked straight into Peter’s eyes. He had woken, sweating and shaking, with the distant sound of howling ringing in his ears.

Remus had married; Voldemort himself had announced it with derision and disgust. Dimly, Peter found himself wondering what Sirius would have thought; he had always been intensely protective over the reserved, sensitive boy. Sirius’s own death at the hands of his cousin had come as both a shock and a relief. No longer did Peter fear that he would be woken by the gaunt, wasted features of his once handsome friend, come to take his long -avowed revenge at last. _Don’t think about that._ Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see Sirius standing opposite him on a crowded muggle street, with a murderous fire in his dark eyes. But Sirius was dead. Dead, like James and Lily, and the Wormtail they had trusted

Peter stopped suddenly. His feet had taken him up the plush velvet stairs that spiralled towards an ornate gold ceiling, and he was now in a long, narrow corridor, lined with high windows that looked out over the landscaped grounds. Below, he could see a white peacock strutting through the topiary. Severus Snape stood silhouetted against the window at the end of the corridor; his dark coat billowing around him. He turned at the sound of Peter’s footsteps, his thin, sallow face framed by its curtains of greasy black hair, his eyes narrowed in dislike.

‘You were sent for me, Wormtail?’

Peter gulped. He had been afraid of Snape at school, with his malevolent tongue and talent for the Dark Arts. He knew Snape had loathed his friends, and Peter by association. How often had he stood behind James and Sirius as they antagonised him, enjoying the show but unwilling to join in himself. He had seen Snape’s lip curl in disdain when he had joined the Death Eaters, could hear the spiteful voice accusing him of cowardice and urging the others to dispose of him, believing him to have nothing to offer the Dark Lord. But Snape had been wrong. They had all been wrong, those teachers who had given him such poor grades, the Death Eaters who had mocked him, the friends who saw him as weak and harmless. He had given Voldemort Harry Potter. Not once, but twice. So why did he still feel afraid?

‘Yes, Snape. The Dark Lord has requested your presence.’

‘And did he inform you why?’

Peter felt a faint stab of bitterness. The Dark Lord, tell Wormtail secrets intended for his favourite Death Eater? What came out, however, was a frightened squeak.

‘No, Snape’.

Snape looked into Peter’s pallid, pudgy face. His black eyes seemed to be boring into Peter’s own watery blue ones. Unbidden, an image swam before his eyes, of a young woman with long red hair and green eyes. She was smiling, reaching out for Peter’s hand, autumn leaves swirling behind her as the wind whipped her hair around her pretty face. The image was gone as soon as it had come, as Snape broke eye contact. Shaking his head slightly to rid himself of this painful memory, Peter looked back at Snape, and thought he saw a spasm of hatred contort his face. He blinked, and Snape’s face was inscrutable again; he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t imagined it. Snape turned away from him without another word and swept towards the stairs.

In the ringing silence that followed, Peter stood quite still. He could see Lily Evan’s face as clearly as the last time he had visited, three days before Halloween. She had thanked him for bringing her news of the Order, and pressed a batch of cauldron cakes into his hands. Her eyes, a vivid emerald green, were soft and kind. He had seen those eyes reflected in her son’s face, as he gazed in terror at Peter, bound to a headstone and facing his own death. Peter slid a little down the wall as his breath hitched in his throat and closed his eyes.

_I made my choice. It’s too late for regrets._

He opened his eyes. He stood up, straightened his robes and walked back towards the stairs, away from those frightened eyes. Lily’s eyes. He had made his choice.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one first and the others just spiralled out of it. This work is NOT a redemptive fic, trying to explain or justify Peter’s betrayal, but delves a little deeper into his thoughts and feelings than we get in the book. I wanted to explore the hatred Snape must have felt for Peter, his old school enemy who went on to betray Lily to her death. (Obviously Snape has a big part to play in that, but Snape being Snape it seems inevitable that he would project his guilt and self-loathing onto Peter, the one who actually gave Voldemort their location, rather than take responsibility himself).


End file.
